


Blemish

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Marking, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 23:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10055789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Apparently, Erestor isn’t nearly so embarrassed by the proof of Glorfindel’s vigor as poor Lindir is.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Glorfindel loves marking his lover so that everyone knows who the advisor belongs to and Erestor loves showing off those marks he's so proud off” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2320.html?thread=2820112#t2820112).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s a gorgeous summer day where the sun beats hot as fire, and Glorfindel retires many of his usual earrings just to save the burning press of metal anywhere on his skin. In sandals, breeches, and the lightest tunic he owns, he drifts through the Imladris courtyards, trying to find the perfect place to practice. What little beams of shade he finds never seem quiet enough to save him from a parched throat and excessive breath, but fighting indoors is never the same.

Around the bend from the fountain, he pauses down an open corridor. Across another square courtyard, Erestor drifts between pillars. His gaze is buried in a book, his long hair billowing lightly behind him. His robes are as thick and proper as ever, though he’s dared to open the high collar, and the first few buttons of his undershirt are parted—even across the distance and through the shadow of the columns, Glorfindel has a tantalizing peak at bare _skin_. 

He knows, from hours upon hours spent _much_ closer, just what sort of marks mar that lovely flesh. 

He abandons all thoughts of training instantly. In truth, he never truly _needs_ it—he was nearly unmatched in skill back then, and few can take him now. It’s just something to do. Erestor is a better thing, and Glorfindel finds himself sinking back into the shadows, hiding out of sight. It’s rare to make it anywhere near Erestor without being instantly spotted—perhaps he’s finally found his chance to try a little prank. The twins, at the very least, would be infinitely impressed if he managed to successfully sneak up on their father’s illustrious right hand.

Glorfindel darts to the next pillar with completely silent footsteps, only to hear another set approach from the far end.

Glorfindel peaks out from behind it to see Lindir walking by Erestor, who stops and calls, “Lindir.” As soon as Lindir stops, Erestor snaps his book closed, his face turning away from Glorfindel’s view and towards his young assistant.

Lindir, looking already flushed and stubbornly dressed to exacting standards despite the weather, does a short double take.

Erestor speaks smoothly to him anyway, and Glorfindel has to ooze behind another pillar to get close enough to hear, “...to reorganize the scheduling. It will not do if another of our people arrives only to find that their ship has already left harbour.”

Lindir stammers, “O-of course.” He visibly forces his eyes up again to Erestor’s; they’d strayed down Erestor’s front.

Glorfindel feels a sly grin tugging at his lips. He knows why Lindir has turned even pinker, brows abnormally high. On any given day, even the smallest peak at Erestor’s chest would boast a multitude of marks, from tight fingerprints to the distinct grooves of teeth to the telltale circles of suction. But last night, in particular, was a frenzied one, and Glorfindel can remember all too well the scrape of his own teeth down Erestor’s soft skin, so delicately pale and easily bruised. Erestor’s neck, he’s sure, still bears the pink lines of long fingers, throat nipped red and raw. Usually, Erestor chooses high collars for more than just their regal bearing.

But either he’s forgotten the extent of Glorfindel’s ardor, or the sun is simply hotter than his shame, if there’s any to be had in what they share. The rest of Erestor’s words are lost to Glorfindel’s ears; he’s busy watching Lindir struggle to maintain eye contact. The poor thing’s become nearly as bright as his crimson cloak. 

“Lindir,” Erestor suddenly snaps, sharp and scolding. Lindir goes ramrod straight in an instant. “Have you heard me?”

“Yes, Sir,” Lindir squeaks just as quickly. “It shall be done.”

Erestor lingers for a moment, likely assessing Lindir’s concentration, and Lindir remains taut for it. Then Erestor tells him dryly, “If these simple marks are so wholly distracting to you, I had best never reveal what has become of my thighs.”

Lindir might actually be shaking. The poor thing has always struck Glorfindel as absurdly innocent, and Erestor seems to have punctured that in one fell swoop.

When Erestor gives a curt nod, Lindir all but runs to the nearest door. Glorfindel has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing.

Then, before Glorfindel has time to duck out of sight again, Erestor glances over his shoulder to catch Glorfindel’s eye, and he quirks a small smile and winks.

Glorfindel grins broadly in return and slinks closer, wanting to bruise in more distractions.


End file.
